Without Knowing Mr Walkley

celebrate a jubilee, a royal wedding, a victory or a coronation, we always had a torchlight procession. There was a mystery about it beforehand. A whisper was passed to our nurses, usually by Albert Musselwhite, the parish clerk, that ‘ there’s going to be fa-urty ta-urches’ and then we waited for the dark. Those Wilton torches were wonderful, made at the Felt Mill from bundles of sheep’s wool saturated with tar and other inflammable stuff. They hung on wires from long poles, and as they were carried along, they lurched and bobbed about, sometimes scattering fragments of burning wool among the crowd, which then broke up, and fled screaming. The wild yellow light shone erratically upon the forms and faces of the people in the procession, and they were no ordinary figures which were thus illuminated, for everyone marched in fancy dress. They threw themselves vigorously into their parts—careering like wild beasts, leaping like clowns, hobbling like lame beggars, banging tambourines like gipsies, or dancing like mad. Nearly everyone in Wilton turned out to see the procession, and to follow it as it streamed through the streets. Some people joined arms and marched in line in front of the band: others kept step on the pavement: but everybody caught the free loose rhythm, and swung along amid a continuous chorus of chattering and laughter. It was madly romantic; and although no doubt those processions had been organized by somebody, they seemed at the time to be the most unpremeditated of midnight larks.

The most important processions ended with a march to the top of Grovely Hill, and then the line of torches could be seen from the street, a moving streak of light upon the background of the dark down. At the edge of the wood was the Jubilee Oak, planted to commemorate the Jubilee of Queen Victoria: and here they used to light an enormous bonfire, round which everybody danced in their fantastic dresses, newly illuminated now by the roaring, soaring flames, which lost themselves at last in hanging clouds of bronze-coloured smoke.

And when all was over, and the children had been sent to bed, it was exciting to lie there listening to the people coming home—many voices in the night, and much laughter: distant shouts which grew more and more distant; footsteps passing in the street, in hundreds at first; then, quietly and slowly in twos; and at last, rather unsteadily, in ones. Doors banged. The lamplighter hurried by with his long pole, putting out the gas lamps. Window after window darkened. Silence fell.

Sometimes our processions celebrated a victory at an election, for before the days of universal suffrage, Wilton was passionately political. Except for those who have to count them, votes seem to count less now that everybody has one. When I first remember elections, the suffrage was comparatively small, yet no one appeared to be shut out of politics. The factory girls were not Suffragettes, for that race did not yet exist, but Mrs. Pankhurst herself was not a more fervent politician. The girls wore blue rosettes, and they crowded to political meetings. They ran about the streets, as we all did, cheering and booing the carriages decorated with the rival colours. Women wore dresses made entirely of royal blue or of scarlet; and Jack Gerrish, the leading Wilton drunkard, painted himself blue all over. New words were set to the popular songs of the day, and new catch-words were coined in every street, to be called from every corner. No one said, as voters sometimes say now, that they ‘take no interest in politics’. Everybody clamoured to be in the thick of it—and was.

At the first election which I can remember, our two candidates were Mr. Sidney Herbert (afterwards Lord Pembroke) and Sir Thomas Grove. Till then, Wilton had been a Parliamentary Borough, returning its own member, who at that time was Mr. Herbert, but the new Franchise Act made it part of the southern division of the county. Of course this was galling to the amour-propre of the burgesses, who found themselves outnumbered by the newly enfranchized villagers. Moreover, the Liberal candidate was himself one of these despised outlanders, for Tommy Grove, as we derisively called him, came from Ferne, a country house at least sixteen miles away, and almost in Dorset.

Still, no one in Wilton believed that our own man could possibly be defeated, and we went joyously to heat the poll declared. We were given a good and safe place, with Reggie and Beatrix Herbert, the children of the Conservative candidate, in a first-floor window facing the Town Hall, and overlooking the crowd. The counting went on for hours, but they were most enjoyable ones, spent in watching the ever-moving, ever amusing crowd. Very few Liberals could be seen, and those few were good-humouredly chaffed and jostled by their opponents who, as they looked about them, could have no doubt that they were in a majority. But as time went on, grave faces appeared at the windows of the Town Hall, and secret signs were passed down to friends below. Conservatives who were ‘in the know’ looked glum, but their glumness did not reach the rank-and-file, which included ourselves.

At last the Poll was declared. Sir Thomas Grove was the first member for the southern division of Wiltshire. Surely no successful candidate was ever so received. He seemed not to have a single friend. He came to the window to make the customary speech. A roar of hooting and booing drowned everything he said. Then appeared the beaten candidate. Passionate cheers received him, and every word he spoke was heard with reverent attention—every word indeed, till he asked for a hearing for his opponent. That was too much. Wilton was resolved that Sir Thomas Grove should not speak in its market-place that morning. And more, he dared not set foot among the crowd, for madness had seized the respectable burgesses of the town. Middle-aged pillars of society became crazy. The Town Hall has only